


your name beating march time in my blood

by the_everqueen



Series: the conservatory au [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Conservatory AU, F/M, M/M, non-linear organization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:26:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9736760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: Alexander Hamilton is a pianist at Kings Conservatory. There are shenanigans and Feelings and not very much practicing At All.





	1. Chapter 1

_Breathe, Hamilton. You can do this._

After all, he has once already. Alex doesn’t think anything could be more stressful than the Julliard pre-college audition: back when he was a kid with no parents or future, and one shot to get to the States and maybe an Ivy League school. Back then aunt Anne, nursing her own failed dreams, taught him on weekends, and after school he stumbled through Beethoven on the scuffed upright in Peter’s basement, while his cousin drank and watched re-runs upstairs. A Go Fund Me account raised enough money for a plane ticket and fees. Back then Alex went into the audition room with no idea what to expect and played because his life depended on it. 

He shouldn’t have had a chance. Instead, he got a full scholarship.

Alex reminds himself of this as he sits outside Morris Hall, waiting for the teachers to call his name. He bounces his leg, takes a sip from his can of Monster. Cruger says caffeine makes your nerves worse, but he’s also in the middle of his third divorce so what the hell does he know. Alex taps out the left hand of Mephisto Waltz on his thigh. Those jumps were perfect last night, on the hotel lobby piano, but he can't afford to be hit or miss.

“Nervous?” someone asks.

It takes Alex a few seconds to realize the question is directed to him. He raises his head, blinks at the person standing in front of him. A student? He looks too young to be faculty, but he’s wearing slacks and a tie and a wide smile that screams full dental insurance. Something about him seems familiar.

Alex frowns. “Just waiting.”

The kid makes a sympathetic noise and offers his hand. “Aaron Burr. I'm a sophomore so if you -”

The name fires something in Alex’s brain and he bursts out in a flare of recognition, “Burr? The same one who soloed with the LA Phil two years ago?”

Burr drops his hand. The smile stays. “Yes, that was me.”

“That was amazing, I heard the recording online. Wow. Sixteen years old and already a professional. Although… Elgar? Boring. Everyone knows that concerto.”

“It is a popular piece.”

“You could’ve been a little more ambitious. We all know you have the technique, you’re a prodigy for God's sake, do something fun. You ever played Saariaho?”

Burr's smile tightens. “Do you have any questions about the program here at Kings, Mr. ...?”

Alex double blinks. Okay, maybe the Monster isn't helping his nerves. “Uh, Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton. And nothing the website couldn't answer. Also - different instruments. So unless you take lessons with Washington on the side…”

Burr gestures to his left hand, still fingering through Liszt. “Piano?”

“Yeah.” 

The other kid gives him a once over that suddenly makes Alex conscious of his dark green button-down and scuffed dress shoes. Should he have worn a tie? It's an audition not a performance. But he thinks of how he must look to Burr, the grandson of a world famous conductor, all polished and shiny in his own right. Alex is just another unknown among thousands looking for a break. 

_It's your playing that matters. No one cares so long as you're good._

“So what are you playing?” Burr asks. 

Alex opens his mouth to answer but at that moment the door to the hall cracks open. “Mr. Hamilton?” a woman calls.

“That’s me.” You can do this. He hands Burr the energy drink and smooths back his ponytail. “Wish me luck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Alex fidgets in the passenger seat and tries not to gape as Burr drives them through a neighborhood that looks like it's worth more than the combined GDPs of South America. This wasn’t what he expected when Burr proposed they rehearse their piece for accompanying class at his place.

Sure, Alex is used to casual displays of wealth. He’s going to Kings, for goodness sake. He shakes hands with donors who use cash like tissues, and he performs for concertgoers in designer suits and diamond gowns. His classmates hire professional chefs to cater the receptions following their recitals.

But he has never seen where those people live - though to be fair, it’s his first year and he hasn’t seen much beyond his practice room - and suddenly he’s having trouble breathing.

Burr glances in his direction, turns the car towards a gated apartment complex. He swipes a keycard at the entrance and the gate rolls open without even a creak. “You okay, Hamilton?”

“Did you steal my bike?” Alex blurts out.

“... What?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Alex runs a hand through his loose hair. His leg is bouncing and his brain is racing and he knows he’s going to regret whatever comes out of his mouth next but he also can’t stop. “When I was a kid - just turned eleven - my mom bought me a bike, God knows how she could afford it, but it was my birthday present and I rode it everywhere. Anyway, a month or two later some kid from my class stole it - of course I didn’t have a lock, I didn’t even have a helmet - and he rode it past my house - to mock me, I guess, he had this look on his face like I was stupid - and I chased him down and punched him.”

He clears his throat. “He lived in a building like this. Probably not as nice. Do you have walk-in closets?”

Burr pulls into a parking spot and gives him a long stare. Then: “Are you going to be able to play?”

Alex bursts out laughing.

Burr fetches his cello case from the trunk and leads the way. They pass a swimming pool bigger than Alex’s dorm as well as a garden with live koi ponds and a flower-laden gazebo. Once inside, it’s a maze of stairs and powder blue walls, long enough to wear down the edge of his anxiety, until finally (finally) they reach Burr's apartment.

Alex hovers near the door, rocking on the balls of his feet, as Burr sets down his instrument and ducks into the kitchen. He talks over the sounds of cabinets slamming closed and running water. “It used to be my uncle’s place. Hence the decor. He moved out of state a year ago, though, so it’s just me.”

Alex looks around. Besides the spinet piano in the corner, all the furniture is functional and neutral tones. There are no prints, no family pictures, not even a stray sock under the couch. Nothing to indicate that a real human being lives here.

He knows about the trust fund. 

He wonders if Burr is lonely.

Burr emerges a minute later bearing mugs of hot cocoa, marshmallows piled past the brim, and hands one to Alex. “Here, have a drink. You need something that's not caffeinated. We’ll practice later.”

Alex takes a sip, bats his lashes over the edge of the mug. “Is this a date? Burr, you could have just asked, I would have come over.”

Burr rolls his eyes and, as usual, refrains from giving him an answer.


	3. Chapter 3

Their meeting is a mistake.

His grandfather would have called it a miracle. Aaron doesn't believe in those, though he might make an exception for her. Theo is beyond him, beyond whatever reason he could give for her existence, so the supernatural must be involved. Perhaps it's a consolation from the universe - everyone who loved you has died, at last someone for you to love - but he feels wrong reducing her to karma for tragedies he barely remembers.

He meets her in his senior year.

He needs three more units of academic coursework, the registrar explains in a polite but terse email. His schedule is already full with orchestra and string quartet and new music ensemble and of course the four hours of practice devoted to working on his recital. He doesn't have time but his full time status is on the line, so he picks a course at random.

MUS 613: Gender and Sexuality in the Repertoire.

A graduate course, he realizes the moment he steps inside the room. Tallmadge and Sampson glare at him, the upstart intruder, and he moves toward the door.

“Aaron Burr?” The professor - Dr. Bartow - looks up from her desk. She is nothing like he imagined: graceful and severe, soft curls framing sharp cheekbones, a true Athena. “I am assuming your presence here is an accident and not a repeat of last year's incident?”

Hamilton - of course Hamilton, who else would it be - having completed the requisite undergraduate academic courses in two years, had petitioned for the conservatory to let him start working on a Master's while also finishing his recitals and ensemble requirements. Needless to say, the registrar denied him.

Aaron shakes his head. “An accident. I wanted to educate myself on the subject and failed to notice the number.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Her lips twist into a frown. “Let me guess: you needed an extra three units so you picked the first course still open.”

He doesn't like the slight narrowing of her eyes, the tightness in her jaw. He is not Hamilton, he makes a point of not upsetting professors, and he refuses to leave with her thinking him a fool. So he says, “Actually, I thought it might give me some insight for performance purposes. I'm working on Ruth Seeger’s string quartet for my recital, and getting the interpretation has been… difficult.”

It’s a calculated risk. _Prodigy_ they all call him, but the problem with that is he can never admit the hours he loses to practice, trying to get it right, or the curdling of his stomach when he thinks about memory slips. At some point, though, he’ll be too old to be a prodigy, and he’d rather have Dr. Bartow not looking at him like that than maintain an unwanted mythos.

She looks skeptical, but her frown twists into a reluctant smile, like she knows what he sacrificed and is charmed by the effort.

“Well,” she says, “normally students are eligible to take this course after Research Methods. Or with special permission.”

His heart skips a beat.

“Sit in today and if you can keep up, I'll sign your Add slip.”

The class is discussion-based, and the other students have had their books for a week. Aaron refutes arguments mostly on rationale, and Sampson lets him sneak glances at her notes so he knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t offer any opinions. He doesn’t know yet, what Dr. Bartow thinks about Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique symphony - she watches them talk, her gold-flecked eyes judging every comment, but she has a laissez-faire approach to guiding the conversation - and he wants to say the right thing, the thing that will make her realize he’s not just another entitled trust fund student.

After class, he hands her his Add slip.

She taps her pen on it, not signing. “What did you think?”

“I’m even more interested in the class -”

“No, about Tchaikovsky. You critiqued Ben’s points, and you were right, his analysis was flawed, but you didn’t offer an alternative.”

Aaron pauses. “It’s widely acknowledged that he was gay. But calling the Pathetique his criticism of a heteronormative society is… not wrong, necessarily, but there are contextual factors to take into account.”

“Better. You’re getting there.” She scrawls her signature next to the checked box. “Maybe by the time you finish with my class you’ll be able to make a nuanced argument about the romantic composers.”

She grins a little, amused at some private thought, and Aaron wants to be in on the joke. He’s also mostly certain the joke is him.

Does it matter? He’s coming back next week.

She hands him a book. He notices the thin gold band on her left hand, but then she gives him a genuine smile and he’s distracted. She can’t be that much older than him. Early thirties? She’s wearing plum colored lipstick. He takes the book - McClary, _Feminine Endings_ , the first book on the reading list. The margins are crammed with tiny cursive letters: _Has she considered Foucault in …? Can subjective interpretations yield objective analyses?_ And in the chapter on Madonna, _Damn, girl, you make bad look good_.

“Just until you get your own copy,” Dr. Bartow clarifies.

“Of course.” He meets her eyes. Thinks about his childhood, and manners, and talk less, smile more. How none of that will matter when he’s kissing those plum lips, making her gold eyes darken. “Thank you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) alex tutors/rewrites other students' papers for money and rage  
> 2) alex has terrible pick-up lines

“- and then he tries to argue that the gap between ethno and historical musicology is legitimate, using a quote from Adorno of all people, but anyway it's out of context because the original essay is discussing the cultural effect of so-called popular music and the hell is this?”

John, distracted more by the rapid-fire cadence of Alexander’s voice than his actual words, nonetheless manages to stop short of crashing into him. “What is - oh.”

Alex is staring intently at a piece of paper taped to the door. It’s a spreadsheet of times from 8:00 am to midnight, with names scrawled next to each hour long slot.

“I mentioned to Eliza that some of us had trouble getting practice rooms,” John says, adjusting the strap of his saxophone case on his shoulder. “I guess this is her solution.”

Alex double blinks at him. John needs to confiscate his energy drink stash. “Who's Eliza?”

“Freshman soprano? She got a role in next semester’s opera?” John rolls his eyes at Alex's blank expression. “Man, you need to go outside more.”

“This is my room. Why are people signing up to use my room?”

“Because even though you sleep in it on weekends, you don't pay rent. Some of us also want to pass juries, you know.” He hefts his case as proof.

“But it's my room. Everyone knows that.” Nope, John is definitely not getting through to him, and before he can continue this futile argument, Alex tears off the paper and barges into the room.

“Alex, someone is in there -”

“What is this?” Alex demands, thrusting the paper at them.

Eliza twists around on the piano bench, her long black braid slipping from her shoulder down her back. “Excuse me?”

And oh. John has seen Alex smitten before - Kitty, Cora, that transfer student Andre - but never like this. His whole demeanor shifts, from bantam fury to something softer - huge earnest eyes and a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Charmer, John thinks, and his heart twists.

“Oh.” Alex tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You must be Eliza.”

Her brows pinch together. “Aren't you in Washington's studio?”

“Alexander Hamilton.” He offers his hand and, when she takes it, brushes a kiss to her knuckles. She gives a surprised laugh, a pearly sound that makes Alex grin.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” she says, “but I should get back to practicing. I have a lesson in half an hour.”

“What piece?” Alex peers over her shoulder. Not subtle at all, John thinks, putting that silver tongue right next to her ear, but Eliza doesn't seem to mind. “Ooh, Micaela’s aria. That’s good, everyone goes for the Habanera.”

“You don’t even like Bizet,” John points out. Neither of them acknowledge him.

Eliza blushes, a light pink on the apples of her cheeks. “It’s a little advanced for me, but I think it sounds lovely. Maybe for my senior recital?”

Alex pulls back so their eyes meet and tells her, with all the conviction of a zealot, “I'm sure you sound beautiful.”

It's the same tone he used the first time they met, when John thought sax was a dirty secret, when he did jazz band for a reprieve from orchestra and woodwind ensemble and Hindemith. Greene gave him a solo that night and he played with all the passion he never felt for clarinet and after the concert Alex came up to him and said, as though it were a fact of the universe, “As long as you play saxophone, the world will be a bearable place.”

John quit clarinet the next day.

Alex nudges Eliza's arm. “Hey, what if I accompanied you while you practice? Help you get a feel for what it'll be like in performance?”

“That's nice of you to offer, but -” and she glances back at John “- I'm sure you're busy.”

Alex shrugs. “I was going to practice. But this would help me with sight-reading. And maybe if you have time you can listen to the Ravel? I have to perform it in masterclass next week and it's always great to have a test run. Especially with a worthwhile audience.”

Eliza worries her lip but she’s smiling and of course she will agree. John takes a step towards the door. “I've gotta get to band. We good for theory homework tonight, Alex?”

“Yeah.” He looks at John, his expression warm and tender, and John already knows he's going to forget.

He hurries to band. Greene will be annoyed if he's late.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) alex and eliza have been dating for a little over a year  
> 2) pre-recitals are hell

Eliza has lost her boyfriend.

She makes a frustrated noise as she peers into the fourth practice room window and finds it dark. Their group went out for dinner and drinks to celebrate the end of finals, but they had to come back to the conservatory after because James left his laptop. She let go for a moment, made a joke about her first date with Tench, and when she turned around Alex was gone.

Of course he would take off to practice as soon as the evening was over. She had hoped he might at least take her home.

She covers the entire second floor before she finds him in the room adjacent to Washington’s office, stumbling through the Revolutionary Etude. The door is unlocked but he doesn’t turn when she approaches the bench. “What are you doing?” 

“You tell me.” 

His tone is sharp in a way she’s heard him use in class discussions - _arguments_ , when it’s Alexander they turn into _arguments_ \- but never with her. She frowns. “Don’t talk to me like that.” 

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.” 

He doesn’t stop playing. 

She takes a deep breath. Tries again. “I thought you might come over tonight.” 

“Can’t. Have to practice.”

Never mind, she’s done.“No, you don't,” she snaps. “Finals are over, you can take a night off and spend some time with your girlfriend. But if you'd rather date the piano, we can stop pretending.” She turns to leave.

The music cuts short. “Eliza - Wait. I'm sorry, don’t go.” 

She turns around. He’s reaching for her, hand outstretched and shaking. His eyes are huge and glistening and panicked, and she remembers the bits and pieces of his childhood he’s let slip: dad gone, mother dead, cousin committed suicide. She thinks about Alexander in class, or during performances - all loud confidence and untouchable genius - and she sees him now, the dark circles under his eyes, lean frame swamped in a hoodie, looking for all the world like a lost child. 

She sits down on the bench. 

He buries his face in her neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. His hands flutter over her shoulder, waist, thigh. Gentle gentle gentle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t leave me,” he whispers into her skin.   

“Alexander,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. He exhales (had he been holding his breath?), and she pulls him into her arms. “I’m right here.” 

They sit like that for a while, him curled against her, until his breathing evens out and he murmurs, “Had my pre-recital today.” 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

He gives a hollow laugh. “I failed.” 

Eliza says nothing.

“Washington chewed me out after. Said I took the etude too fast and that the Beethoven was senseless - nothing to connect the variations. Of course he never mentioned this during the semester, I'm just supposed to magically know because that's my job.” He pauses. “I yelled at him. Adams was there. It was bad.” 

She can imagine. She’s sat in on the studio masterclass, watched them snip at each other over minor details. Both of them, with their short tempers and no restraint? It must have been a nightmare. 

Alexander continues, “He said I have winter break to fix it. My next pre-recital is the first day back. Otherwise I have to stay another semester. Which is impossible, and he knows it - my scholarships only cover four years, no exceptions, and I’ve already sent in recordings for Master’s programs. I have to pass, Eliza.” 

“You will, you’re so talented -” 

“Yeah, well, talent doesn't mean shit. McHenry is _talented_ and he's never going to see the inside of a concert hall unless he gets over his stage fright.” He straightens, fixing her with a stare. “Don't you get it? I have to be the best. That adage ‘the audience wants you to do well’ is just another lie. People don’t care. Classical music is on the decline, it’s harder than ever to make a living out of it. There's ten thousand pianists in the world, and we’re all competing against the Decca records of the greats from fifty years ago. Who wants to pay to hear some unknown Latino kid take a shot at music written by dead German dudes when they could listen to Andras Schiff for free any time they want?” 

“That's not true -” 

“Am I really better than the rest of them? According to Washington I’m nowhere near the level I need to be. Can't do Mozart for shit. Sure, I've got perfect grades but those don't matter when you’re trying to score a gig with the New York Phil. It's about ability and connections. I'm a poor immigrant orphan, too abrasive to network, so I have to be so good they beg for me even if they hate me. Like fricking Glenn Gould.” 

He’s getting wound up, his hands making furious gestures as he talks. Eliza is searching for the thing that will calm him down when suddenly he just… deflates. 

“I don’t know why I’m here. I thought I could make it, but turns out the wings are made of wax after all. You shouldn’t be dating me. I’m sorry.” 

“I'm not,” she says. 

He fiddles with the hem of her dress.

“I'm not,” she repeats. She turns his face towards her. “I know who I’m dating. You're brilliant, Alexander. I've never heard anyone like you, in class or onstage. And if I can see that, others will, too.” 

He looks skeptical, but he gives her a half-smile. “I'm sorry about earlier. Really. Ask John, he knows I don't apologize to anyone.”

“I forgive you.” She kisses the furrow between his brows. “Come on, we're going back to my place.”

His expression goes from worried and penitent to defensive in an instant. “I wasn't kidding, I need to practice, I've only got these two weeks -”

“Alexander,” she warns. 

God help her, for a moment he actually looks like he’s going to argue. She presses on, “You’re tired and stressed, and probably a little drunk from that rum and coke you had tonight. Do you really think it’s a good idea to practice like this? At best you’re going to reinforce sloppy technique, at worst you’re going to get tendonitis.” 

“Fine,” he sighs, but the tension leaves his shoulders. 

“You can play the Beethoven for me in the morning. Give it some fresh perspective.”

“Really? Because there’s this one section that reminds me of a piece you sang last semester…”

He rambles on about the chorale movement of his Beethoven through the walk to her car, the drive to her apartment in the student housing section, the climb up three flights of stairs. It’s not a coherent argument, more stream of consciousness than anything else, but Eliza hums whenever he pauses for breath, and he holds her hand as they walk, and every few minutes he glances over like he can’t believe she’s there.

“Better?” she asks him, once they’re inside.

“Yeah.” He rubs circles into her wrist with his thumb. “As long as you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m here,” she promises.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) i wasn't kidding when i said non-linear  
> 2) pre-eliza, alex and john are both sophomores in this  
> 3) john and bernstein have something in common and it isn't jazz

It’s evening and John is in bed, working on his paper for von Steuben’s class (rough draft due tomorrow at noon) when Alex stumbles into their dorm and collapses face-first on top of him, narrowly missing John’s laptop with his head. John moves it over a fraction of an inch, checks the time in the corner of the screen. 7:32 pm. 

“I thought you were going to the concert tonight.”

Alex groans into John’s rib cage. “She dumped me.”

“Who?”

“Maggie. Said she and Andre were getting back together.”

“Didn't you date Andre?”

Alex makes a gesture of dismissal. “We went to some art museums,” which isn't an answer either way. “She told me during intermission. Can you believe that? Like I'm supposed to sit through Mahler's Third next to my ex-girlfriend. We were making out in the parking lot an hour before! Anyway, I left because I am not going to associate the minor Frere Jacque theme with a break up, that would be pathetic.”

John bites his lip. If he's being honest, it's hard to feel sympathy for Alex, who this semester alone has dated five different people, not counting his vague courtship of that transfer, John Andre. His relationships have never lasted more than a week, despite his enthusiastic declarations of love and rumors that Washington's favorite piano student is also a prodigy in bed. (“It's the fingers,” Cora once told him in all seriousness, and John couldn't watch him play for a week without thinking of that.) 

Yet for all his mourning, Alex also rebounds faster than anyone John has ever seen. He complains about Maggie tonight, but in two days it will be Sarah or Adrienne or maybe Tallmadge, even though he’s a grad student and they're in the same studio. And then he'll be heart-eyed and full of poetic nonsense again, his past lovers forgotten outside of class. 

And John… John is just here. The best friend, the confidant, even though he could swear the first time they met Alex was flirting, pulling out all stops to impress him despite the fact Alex's approach to jazz is more instinct and luck than actual knowledge. John hates himself for clinging to that, thinks he's reading into things, but then Alex nuzzles him in class or plays with his hair while they're studying and he can't help but feel maybe it's something more.

Alex's monologue winds down. John keeps his eyes fixed to his laptop screen - although who is he kidding, he’s not focused on Bernstein - but he feels Alex relax into him, his breathing gone languid, and John thinks maybe he's fallen asleep. 

Then, quiet: “Why do they all leave?”

“Hmm?”

Alex pushes up onto his elbows. His expression is one John has never seen before: on another person it might be resigned, but Alex doesn’t ever stop fighting. 

“Why does everyone leave?” he repeats. 

“... I don’t know.” 

“You think I’d be used to it - I mean, Dad left when I was ten, that should’ve be a sign. But I don’t… is it me? Obviously, that’s the common denominator, but what about me, then? If I knew what it was, I might be able to fix it. Or maybe I just give off a vibe: This is a mistake! Get out while you can!” 

“You’re not a mistake,” John says, feeling stupid.

Alex shrugs. “Whatever. Didn’t mean to get all maudlin. What are you working on?”

“Paper for von Steuben. It’s due tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I turned in a week ago.” Alex crawls forward to nestle against John’s side, head resting on his shoulder. “What’s your topic?”

John swallows. Prays Alex can’t feel his heart going a million miles an hour. “Influence of jazz in Age of Anxiety.”

Alex hums. “You should read it to me.”

He really shouldn’t. His pulse is in his throat, he still needs to write the conclusion and then go back and do some edits because yeah, it’s a rough draft but von Steuben grades those, too, and he can be harsh -

He does anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) Rach 3 is one of the hardest pieces in the rep and EVERYONE plays it  
> 2) Martha is a counselor at another school that doesn't have a bunch of high strung male pianists  
> 3) Alex is wrong about Mozart but right about Bach

After over two decades of teaching, Washington has learned some things are absolute. Students never practice enough. Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto is not an undergraduate level piece, no matter how talented the student. And, perhaps most important, the first lesson sets the tone for a four-year long relationship that often extends into the student’s years outside of Kings. 

This one will be no different, he thinks, as a sharp knock announces his student’s arrival. 

(Later he will regret that thought.) 

“Come in,” he calls. Glances at the wall clock: 1:30 pm, right on time.

Hamilton bursts into the room, arms full with scores and loose sheet music. “Dr. Washington, sorry I'm late.”

“You're not.”

He frowns, confusion flitting across his face, then shakes his head. “Oh. Well. I know we haven't discussed repertoire, so I brought the pieces I’d decided on. You might require more - the recital guidelines in the handbook are unspecific - but I figured we could start working on these, get ahead for the competition season. Not to mention graduate auditions.”

This is… not what George had expected.

Alexander doesn't notice his shock and keeps talking. “...the sonata will be a challenge, until I master the technique, but it goes so well with the fugue...”

George needs to take control or else their hour lesson will be wasted. He clears his throat. “Hamilton.”

“...I hate playing Bach, but it's a requirement for most grad programs, and the e-flat minor prelude has this dark quality about it that ties into...”

“Hamilton.”

“...so the concert will progress in chronological order but also in the sense of moving out of darkness into light -”

“ _ Son.” _

“I'm not your son,” Alexander snaps. 

The venom in his voice is sudden and acute. Martha would probe that anger, suss out its root to address at a less charged moment, but George is losing time and wants this lesson to be somewhat productive. Taking a deep breath, he asks calmly, “Did you ever stop to consider that I might have already selected pieces for you, prior to our lesson, to develop technique and broaden your interpretive abilities?”

Alexander blinks at him. His jaw tightens.

(Later George will realize silence is never a good sign with Hamilton, it's just the eye of the hurricane.)

“With all due respect, sir,” he grits out, “did you ever consider I might have picked these pieces for the same reason?”

He doesn’t wait for a response but launches into an explanation, slapping each score down on the piano bench as he lists them. “Bach, prelude and fugue, BWV 853 - voicing, and because it’s more pianistic, since Baroque music isn’t my strong suit. Beethoven, Opus 111 - stamina and finger independence, those trills are a nightmare. Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie is to contrast the Beethoven, though it also culminates in the sublime, plus it’s a major romantic work. And Jeux d’eau is fun, so yeah, not necessary but it’s a nice finish.” 

George sighs. “You’ve arranged a demanding concert.”

“Which is why I don’t intend to waste a single minute of my time here.” Alexander’s defiant expression slips a little, looks almost pleading. “Sir, you know I’m more than capable.”

George does know. Or, at least, he knows Hamilton reminds him of himself when he was younger: eaten up with ambition, desperate to prove he belonged in this world that valued stage presence as much as talent. He knows Hamilton will practice six hours a day, enter every competition in the state, and get straight A’s in all his classes. 

And he knows Hamilton is special. When Alex came into Morris Hall on auditions day, wearing secondhand dress shoes and a shoulder-length ponytail, George hadn’t expected much. But then he launched into the Mephisto Waltz - no pretense, no hesitation at all - and his playing was like standing on the edge of madness, as though it could fall apart at any moment yet never did. A reckless momentum, except that he could also be gentle, moving through lyrical passages with aching tenderness.

George couldn’t refuse that kind of talent.

Nevertheless, he’s not willing to cede control over lessons. And the first lesson is where he establishes his authority. “You’ve already done a Beethoven sonata. What about Mozart? His music influenced Chopin’s style, that would lend your program a historical continuity.”

Hamilton makes a sound of disgust. “I did not come to Kings Conservatory to play  _ Mozart _ -”

“Alex,” George warns.

“Mozart,” he says louder, “was an overrated ass surrounded by mediocrities who didn’t know how to write a functional progression with more than two chords. He got lucky, if he’d been born at any other period in history, we might not have remembered him. Like how we almost escaped Bach.”

George feels a headache coming on. Their time is nearly done; he rubs his throbbing temple. “What about a concerto? Have you given thought to that?”

Hamilton nods. “Saint-Saens, G minor.”

At least it’s not Rach’s Third. Small mercies. George sighs, again, and grudgingly admits the boy has put thought into his choices. “Fine. Bring me the first movement next week, along with the Bach. Both of them memorized.”

“Of course.” Alexander gathers his scores, his posture stiff and formal once more. “I look forward to working with you, sir.”

(Later, George can admit he had no idea what he was getting into.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) masterclass is a weekly thing and no one besides Alex gives comments. no one besides Alex wants to be there.  
> 2) Alex and Eliza have been dating for a few months

Alexander is unlike anyone Eliza has ever dated.

Sometimes she isn't sure whether that's a good or bad thing.

Case in point: Eliza is sitting in for Washington’s studio masterclass. For the past two weeks she and Alexander have hardly spent time together - kisses stolen on the way to class, fragments of conversations while he practices - and despite his long, rambling texts detailing the ways he finds her perfect and his feelings about Bach, she’s found herself missing him. His presence, his manic energy, his tactile need to have his hands on her always. 

She knows he’s busy. She is, too, with opera preparations and finals coming fast. But she couldn’t help pouting earlier this morning, as he pulled away from a kiss to go tutor one of the kids in the survey. 

“Come to masterclass,” he told her. “Then you’ll see me.”

So here she is, in Morris Hall, between her boyfriend and Tench Tilghman (of all people!), listening to James McHenry perform a Chopin nocturne. Not an ideal date, to be sure. For one thing, Alexander is not touching her, instead perched on the edge of his seat, fixing James with a death glare. For another, Dr. Washington keeps glancing in their direction and she feels like an outsider, because she  _ is _ . Alexander said it would be fine if she came, but now she wonders if he asked in the first place. Then again, Washington seemed almost relieved - or at least, he gave one of his half-smiles - when he saw her, so maybe it is fine. 

McHenry stumbles over a passage, and Alex makes an irritated noise. 

James isn’t bad. Eliza took lessons when she was little, though it mostly gave her a predilection towards pianists, rather than any useful skills. But she can hear talent, and McHenry’s playing holds a sincerity that would be beautiful if his hands weren’t visibly shaking. 

Having Alexander in his peripheral vision probably doesn’t help.

McHenry finishes the piece. He swipes at his forehead before giving a meek bow and scurrying back to his seat. The studio offers polite applause - or not polite, in Alexander’s case, as he slow claps, still frowning.

Washington sighs. “Any feedback?”

Alexander’s hand goes up, though he doesn’t bother to be given permission before he starts talking. “So it’s obvious you’re going for the parallels between Chopin’s style and Bellini arias, but are you really gonna ignore the pianistic elements in this piece? Because those phrases are longer than any vocalist could sustain, and when you break off in the middle of them, we lose all sense of direction. Where are you going? What’s the bigger picture? Also, yeah, it’s an aria, melody is important, but that doesn’t mean you can leave out the harmony altogether. Bring out those bass notes, we want to feel that dip to the lower register every time the left hand pattern repeats.” He hums the melody, drops his voice lower to indicate the downbeats, fingers miming the gestures in mid-air. “It’s the pulse... the melody is timeless, extending past the bar lines, but every measure the bass brings us back. Grounding, that’s the word.”

McHenry’s mouth twists like he is trying not to cry. 

Alexander clearly has more comments, but Eliza puts a hand on his leg and he pauses. 

“Thank you, Hamilton,” Washington interjects, seizing the opportunity. “I’m sure James will take your criticisms to heart. Anyone else?”

The others give their input: modest compliments and vague suggestions. Every word has Alex twitching with impatience, and Eliza absently traces the seam of his jeans with her fingers until he stills. While Washington is distracted, going on about strong versus weak fingers, Alexander turns toward her and raises an eyebrow. “Your place tonight?” he mouths.

She smiles.

“Hamilton?” Washington is looking at him. “Since we’re on the subject of Chopin, why don’t you play the Polonaise?”

“Hm?” He comes to attention. “Oh, sure.”

This is the Alexander everyone knows: restless, casual arrogance, his chin thrust forward, eyes sparking for a fight. He gives them, the audience, a wicked smile - tomcat, indeed - and takes his seat.

Deep breath. And begin.

This is the Alexander she knows.

He touches the keys like he touches her: tender, deliberate. His right hand climbs through the registers for the opening cadenza, and he watches it, gaze lost to somewhere else, lips softly parted. He lingers on the top note, drops back down - again and again, the line rises only to fall, and each time it becomes more desperate, reaching, until he launches into the fantasy theme and all his wanting is fisted inside it. 

When the polonaise rhythm enters, it is pure forward momentum, the melody soaring above. No one should be able to sustain this wanting, but Alexander does, and by the time he crashes into the triumphant ending - loud octaves and fast triplets - he’s sweating, drawn taut as a wire. The final chord is release, a sudden exhale like he finally remembered how to breathe.

He stays there for a moment, bent over the keys and shaking. Then, abruptly, he stands and returns to his seat.

The studio is speechless. Horrified or impressed or maybe both.  

Washington makes them discuss his performance anyway, analyze all his interpretive choices. Alex is too agitated to pick an argument. Unlike most people, he doesn't get tired after performances: his leg bounces, and his eyes skitter over whoever’s talking, not really seeing them.  

Eliza rests her head on his shoulder, and he leans into the touch.

Later that night, they’re spooning on her couch, Alexander murmuring edits and innuendo into her ear while she fixes her paper for von Steuben’s class. She pauses, thinking of a synonym for happiness. “You were incredible. In masterclass.”

“I’m good in other places, too,” he teases, pinching her hip. She laughs.

“I thought you had a paper to write.”

“It can wait another hour. Not due till Friday. Besides, you’re more important.”

She blushes, thinks very hard about synonyms. “What do you think about, when you’re onstage?”

He presses kisses along her jaw. “Depends on the piece. Sometimes nothing.”

“What did you think about when you played the Chopin?”

He goes still. 

She twists around to see his face. “Don’t say me, I was there.”

“No, I - I told you.” He swallows, not looking at her. “It’s me.”

She frowns. “You think about yourself?”

“It’s probably stupid, but I was listening to recordings for ideas and they all sounded - I wanted to do something different. And I started thinking about Chopin having consumption and the opening cadenza - how it’s this endless moment but it goes nowhere - and who starts a piece like that? With the sound dying out? It starts with death. And - all of that - it reminded me of my mom, when we were - we got sick. And she died. That’s what made me start playing piano, really playing, because I survived and I needed it to mean something. But yeah. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. It started with death.”

He clears his throat. Continues to not look at her, his body tense under hers. “Anyway. I don’t think about that every time I perform it, but that was… the feeling behind it, I guess. I think Chopin understood that, being sick and the wanting.”

“Oh, Alexander.” Eliza’s heart is aching, but she reaches up to give him a kiss. “Thank you. For trusting me with that. I know it must be hard to talk about.”

“Yeah.” He relaxes; her reaction was the right one. He nods towards her laptop, at her blinking cursor and unfinished sentence. “The word you’re looking for is bliss.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) John and Laf are in choir, which meets 5-7 pm on Mondays, the same time as Alex's tutoring sessions  
> 2) Alex won the school concerto competition in the previous semester, so he is Stressed

Alex is late.

He was supposed to meet John and Laf for dinner half an hour ago, and he feels the excess time  churning in his stomach as he runs through dim halls toward the auditorium. He’s never late, John knows that, he just took longer than usual explaining secondary dominants to Caroline, he needs her to ace the midterm so Lee will acknowledge he’s a good tutor, he can handle a few students on top of his coursework and practice schedule, he needs the money, Washington looked askance at his scuffed shoes during dress rehearsal, he just needs survive the performance, they have to understand…

The lights to the auditorium are still on. The tightness in his chest loosens. Maybe choir ran over? Maybe he’s not that late.

He cracks open the side door.

John and Lafayette are stretched out on the empty stage, talking just loud enough that they don’t hear him. Alex has never acted with restraint in his life, but something makes him hold back, linger in the dark space between the door and the stage. 

“... and then he fell asleep on me,” John is saying. “What do I do with that?”

Laf makes a noise of disapproval. “You need to talk to him.”

“But - you see the problem - I can’t decide whether it means anything. What if he thinks we’re just friends and I make it awkward? Besides, even if it  _ did _ mean something, he’s going out with Kitty - they are still together, right, she hasn’t broken up with him yet? - and he wouldn’t do that, he has those stupid puppy eyes for her.” 

Alex swallows. They’re talking about him, of course they’re talking about him. The scene is a high school cliche, except he never went to a normal high school so he doesn’t really know. 

He’s not stupid. He sees the fond looks John gives him during their study sessions, feels him go tense whenever Alex jumps into his lap, hears the soft note in his voice when he says Alex’s name. They met last year because he thought the saxophonist at the jazz concert Burr dragged him to was talented and hot, and what harm could a little banter do?

But John is his best friend. He’s smart and passionate and reckless and an utter asshole. And Alex - well. Alex has never had friends before. The kids at Julliard hated him, called him loud and abrasive, and before that he was too busy practicing or doing homework to socialize. What he has with John is precious - they get each other like no one else at Kings. Alex doesn’t want to ruin that with his issues, or whatever it was about him that drove away his dad, killed his mom, and made Jaime hate him. It hurts, to imagine John looking at him like Maggie did last week, like Kitty did today, tired and frustrated. 

People always leave, but he doesn’t want John to go.

He walks out, swings his messenger bag and then himself onto the stage, talking all the while. “Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe how many Mozart sonatas I had to pull for examples. If she fails the theory midterm, it’s Wolfie’s fault, not mine.”

John and Laf exchange glances. Not subtle at all.

Alex scoots over so he can rest his head on John’s stomach. Like usual, as if he didn’t overhear their conversation about his mixed signals. He plays with the hem of John’s sweatshirt until Laurens relaxes under him, runs a hand over his hair. 

“You still on for dinner? Or did you guys order a pizza while I was out?”

“We should have,” John muses. 

Laf rolls his eyes. “No, because you like pineapple and that is wrong.”

“So, I’m hearing pancakes.” Alex pushes onto his elbows, making John grunt. “Unless one of you is craving fries.”

“Pancakes sound good. Laf can get the kids meal, they make a smiley face with whipped cream and chocolate chips.”

“Or the red white and blue stack.”

Laf gasps, puts a hand to his heart. “You are mocking me!”

“Like we don’t all the time.” Alex stands. “Drive us to pancakes and we’ll let you blast your Callas albums on the way.”

John and Laf argue on the walk to the parking lot about whether Callas or Norman is a better singer, which somehow devolves into a commentary on Laf’s inability to dance. Alex launches into an imitation of the tenor in last year’s opera. It feels good, it feels safe. 

He isn’t going to ruin this. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) this contains Spoilers for a part of the timeline that will get its own separate story, so be warned  
> 2) Alex is in the second year of his Masters at a different school, Eliza is doing an Artist Diploma at Kings

“Angelica told me.”

Silence. 

Eliza grips the phone so hard she thinks the plastic will crack. It's like they've switched places. Alexander isn't talking, and her brain won't stop being loud. Questions questions questions. Who was she? What made you do it? Why wasn't I enough? Why did I think this would work? Why couldn’t I fix you? 

She tries anyway. “I thought maybe you would tell me.”

Silence.

Maybe he hung up. Maybe he left her, like everyone left him. A surge of anger floods her. She doesn’t want to pity him. “Alexander, say something or I swear to God -”

“It wasn't you.”

“What?”

“It wasn't - look, I was wrong. It was during the Aspen Festival and I never saw her again after that and I’m sorry and it’s not your fault -”

“Of course it's not my fault!” she screams. “You slept with another girl!”

All she can hear is her own heavy breathing, made harsh with static.  

“It lasted for a month! Were you just going to pretend nothing happened? Come over for winter break, talk to my sisters - Angelica  _ knows _ , did you think she wouldn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t -”

“Or did you mean to end it? Test the waters, see whether there was anything better -”

“ _ Eliza _ .” His voice cracks in the middle of her name. “It wasn't you. You're perfect.”

“I'm not,” and she's crying now, tears burning hot tracks down her cheeks. It just makes her more furious - her boyfriend cheated on her, he should be the one feeling weak and exposed, not her, she didn't do anything - but she can't get a hold of her breathing. 

It takes her a minute to realize Alexander is talking, his voice low and earnest and comforting, a stream of words in her ear: “... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was a mistake, I'm so so sorry…”

She wants to scream. “Shut up,” she says, her words strangled around the tightness in her throat. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. For once in your damn life stop talking. This is over. We're done.”

A pause. “I know,” he says, resigned.

And that’s another betrayal. Did she want him to fight for her? Make excuses? She's seen him fight over a tempo marking with more passion. Isn't she worth some effort? 

She wants to make him bleed, cut him with his own weapons. She wants him to burn.

“Go to hell,” she says, and hangs up.

(She wonders if she'll have to go to confession for that.)

She watches his performance the next day because of course she does. It's being live-streamed on the competition website: Alexander has a morning slot, 9:15 his time, 6:15 hers, which means she can watch before class, curled up on her bed. 

He looks terrible when he comes onstage. Dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in a week, greasy hair shoved into a bun. His suit is wrinkled. He doesn't smile, doesn't acknowledge the judges at all - the panel of names even she recognizes, heads of schools and concert artists. Alexander ignores them, walks over to the piano and starts playing without so much as a breath.

It is a train wreck. 

Wrong notes everywhere, and memory slips - Alexander never forgets, he has a photographic memory, but he leaves out whole sections of the Beethoven and stops several times in the Bach, frowning at the keys. The Rach is just a stream of dissonant sound, and at one point he's banging on the piano, his fingers slamming again and again into the chords and all of it wrong and none of it music. The entire time his face is impassive, and she knows he's lost, gone somewhere in his own head. When it's finally over, he stumbles offstage, pale and shaking, not even bothering to bow. 

Her phone lights up.

AH:  _ Eliza I'm sorry I'm so sorry please let me explain... _

She turns it off. The video of his performance is already queued, probably going viral. She still has an hour before she has to get ready for class. 

She watches it again. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) the Mahler they're discussing is the Titan symphony and if you wanna yell at me about the implications behind that, feel free  
> 2) i love John Church

“Is this a regular thing for you?”

“Sex or stimulating conversations about Mahler? Because the answer to one of those questions is yes.”

Angelica laughs. “I thought you fell asleep!”

“I’m not that old.” Church rolls onto his side, grins at her. How unfair that the photo in her program lied and he’s even more handsome in person, with his dark eyes and perfect skin and devilish grin. Like Apollo, if Apollo were concertmaster for the New York Phil. “Speaking of which, you game for another round?”

So, better than Apollo.

“In a minute.” She places a hand on his chest, which reminds her this is not a dream, this is real, she is touching  _ John Barker Church _ . “Do you normally have sex with girls from the audience? Or is this some mid-life crisis thing? Because I don’t care either way, you were amazing, onstage and off. But I’m curious.”

“I’m in my thirties, can I have a mid-life crisis?”

“Music is like meth, ages you faster.”

“Hmm. That seems unfair. Isn’t it supposed to be healing? There are music therapists.”

“Don’t get philosophical on me.”

“I’m sure you could best me at the Greeks,” he assures her. “But to answer your question, no.”

She raises an eyebrow but keeps her tone light and teasing. “Then why am I here?”

“Because you are interesting.” He looks her straight in the eye. “Smart, engaging, and yes - beautiful. Besides, what woman would find me after a concert to tell me she thought my bowings could be more clear in the third movement? The stars had obviously aligned.”

She stares at him for a long moment. 

Then she swings a pillow at his head. “You liar!” she shrieks, and both of them are laughing, bodies tangled in the hotel sheets. She really doesn’t expect anything from him - he’s famous, a world-class musician, and she’s a first-year graduate conducting student - but it’s a nice memory, something to tell Eliza and Peggy over break.

The next morning, before he flies out, she gives him her number. For networking purposes.

(He calls her that night. And the next. And the next.)

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) this is after the Bad Summer so Spoiler Warning again i suppose  
> 2) obviously Alex and Eliza would be That Couple

“I’m an adult, I don’t need a chaperone to go on a date.”

Angelica tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Eliza's car is smaller than she likes, but at least it lets her give a pointed stare in the rearview mirror. “Maybe not, but  _ he _ does.”

Alex shrinks in the backseat, looking like a whipped dog. 

Eliza glares at her big sister. “That was unfair.”

Maybe. But then again, it was unfair that Alex cheated on her little sister, the most trusting and kind person she's ever known. And it was unfair that Eliza forgave him. How is Angelica supposed to be okay with them getting back together? 

They get to the restaurant without further incident, and Alex gives his name to the waiter. It's a nice place, Church took her here once, and the fluted water glasses, pastel linens,  and fairy lights are very much Eliza's aesthetic. Alex seems to know this, too: a playful grin teases the corner of his mouth as he pulls out Eliza's chair. He takes the seat next to her and brushes a kiss to her cheek. 

Angelica thinks, meanly, this place is out of his Red Bull and rice budget. Maybe he knows someone. 

“So, what are you doing for the next orchestra concert?” Eliza asks.

Angelica makes small talk, listing the pieces she chose and dishing out the latest gossip about the woodwinds, but it's not long before her sister is too distracted to do more than give one word answers or non-committal hmms. Alex isn't subtle: maybe he thinks the tablecloth covers his hand inching up Eliza's thigh, under the hem of her very short skirt, but it does not. Besides, Eliza gives a soft moan every so often that has nothing to do with her feelings on Ralph Vaughan Williams. 

The waiter comes and Alex snatches his hand back into his lap and they order appetizers. Alex is quieter than she ever thought possible, his attention fixed on Eliza as though she might disappear, and she's smiling at him, hazy and warm, and already her hair is coming loose from its braid. Angelica realizes she's never really seen them together, just at family events, where Alex is as loud and charming as ever, showing off for her parents.  

The food arrives. 

Eliza excuses herself to the bathroom.

“Charmer,” Alex murmurs as she goes.

Angelica wants to gag.

Alex reverts back to his normal, extroverted self for approximately five minutes. They talk about his Saint-Saens, what kind of interpretative choices he’s making and what she would do. Then he starts glancing over her shoulder, bouncing his leg, craning his neck to look around the dining room. Finally he tosses his napkin on the table and retreats with a “back in a minute.”

Angelica has lost her appetite.

God knows what they’re managing in those cramped stalls - she doesn’t  _ want _ to know - but it will probably be a while.

She gestures for a waiter.

“Can I cover the check in advance? Whatever the bill is, put it on this -” she hands over her credit card “- and tell my sister I got a call to meet with a friend of mine. I'll leave her the car.” She'll get an Uber. Maria might be in town, maybe Angelica can come over.

Eliza will be fine.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know:  
> 1) for reference, this is the Bad Summer in the timeline  
> 2) Alex has graduated Kings and is pursuing his masters at another conservatory  
> 3) (it is not going so well)  
> 4) the festival mentioned here is a real festival but obviously i altered things about it for the purposes of fiction  
> 5) IMSLP is a god-send

Coming onstage to scattered applause, Alex bows to the dozen or so students and teachers in the audience before he takes his seat and launches into the Rachmaninov. 

His mind wanders while he plays. A new trick, something to keep him from smashing the keys and screaming endlessly during lessons with Jefferson, or these masterclasses, one after another, people picking apart his every gesture. Crescendo more in measure ninety-two, don't flick your eyes at that point, listen to the tone listen to the tone  _ listen to the damn tone _ , as though the quality of that particular B-sharp will make or break his entire performance. As though they would care if it did.

He thinks of Eliza, always. Her lilac perfume, the saucy curve of her mouth, the softness of her skin at vital  points - throat, wrist, hip - and her voice going high and breathless when she comes. Maybe the tenderness he feels for her will come through the music, where he feels nothing. Like masturbation: get off on a fantasy. Except these days Alex can't even find release; performing always leaves him drained, chasing the ghost of a feeling. 

He should be with Eliza, he thinks, as he moves into the  _ agitato _ section. Last summer she brought him to stay with her family at their lake house: the two weeks are a warm haze in his memory, full of her and lemonade and sun on the water. If he were there now, he would play for her: mess around on the Schuyler piano and write silly lyrics for her to sing along. 

Instead he is here, at the Aspen Summer Music Festival. Because he needs the connections, because Jefferson told him it wasn't optional. A nine-week carnival of masterclasses and seminars and recitals. Alex hasn't stopped playing since the first day.

He is so tired.

He finishes the piece. Drops his hands into his lap. The guest pianist - someone famous from Peabody or Colburn, Alex doesn’t care - comes around to him and starts into his critique. What is your intent for this piece? How long have you been working on it? The usual questions and Alex gives short answers or non-committal grunts. Just let him go, send him offstage, shut up shut up shut up -

"Good work," the guy tells him, and Alex escapes back into the audience. 

He takes an aisle seat, next to a girl hunched over a black binder. IMSLP, he thinks, free sheet music online - the go-to for broke students like him. Jefferson hates the loose pages, so Alex had to sacrifice a hundred bucks for Urtext editions. At least he took first at that one competition; the prize money meant he could afford express shipping. 

The next victim appears onstage. Alex leans over to the girl and murmurs, "You playing for this thing?”

She gives a tight nod, slides the binder over so he can see the score. Brahms sonata, F minor. Huge chords and leaps, but her long, narrow fingers ghost the plastic-protected page and he knows she doesn’t have any trouble reaching. The score is almost obliterated by pencil markings: jagged cursive spells out note names, circles dynamics, and - most of it is this - fragments of sentences, including what might be a Yeats reference and the words “like Orfeo descending to Hell.”

She's watching him. Something about her feels familiar, the wariness in her eyes, the way she chews on her lower lip, a nervous tick.  

He hands back the binder. “You’re going to be fine. Mercer - you’ve seen him - he gets excited but there’s not really any substance. No reason to be nervous.”

She doesn't smile, exactly, but her mouth turns up at one corner. "Thanks."

When it’s her turn, Alex claps loudly. The masterclass is an informal event, but she's wearing a red sundress that shows her bare legs and shoulders. Her loose curls slip from their ponytail, brushing the nape of her neck.

Alex tries not to stare. 

She catches his eye as she bows to the audience, and he gives her his best encouraging smile. 

She's talented. Everyone here is, but she stands out. Her selection - the third movement, the Intermezzo - and her interpretation. It’s dark and harsh, a strange characterization of a transient movement; but then he remembers the last movement is a furious rondo, and the falling melodic line feels like a moment taken out of context, raw and inexplicable. While Mercer drones on about function and form, Alex digs through his messenger bag for the program, finds the girl's name. 

Maria Lewis.

Mercer gives her some vague suggestion and ends the class. Alex stands as Maria comes back for her purse. 

"That was incredible.”

"It isn’t right yet. Almost there, but…” She shrugs. 

"What are you going for? I mean, not like that, everyone asks that, but to me it sounded... Tragic.  Not sad, but - Shakespeare. You see the ending coming but you’re powerless to stop it.”

She stares at him. 

Alex hasn't rambled about music since Kings. Jefferson hates it, has rules about comments in forum. Everything written, two criticisms, one compliment. Alex used to cram his index card with tiny script, trying to get it all down despite the restrictions, but Jefferson called him out so many times it didn't seem worth it after a while. Let Callander be sloppy. Let Madison be dry and inexpressive. Focus on your own rep. 

He forgot he liked talking about music.

Maria probably thinks he’s a freak, though, so he opens his mouth to apologize. 

She beats him to it. “That’s how I hear it, too.”

And that confirmation is the release he's been craving. The words pour out of him, like she nicked an artery. "I think all Brahms is tragic, maybe because the dude had such a sad life - I mean, his best friend died in an asylum, Clara rejected him - but this sonata is another level. It's like a symphony - you know how he idolized Beethoven? Tried achieve that legacy? But the piano is too limited, too intimate for a public statement and the F minor feels like it's trying to crawl out of its skin. Wants to be something it can't be."

He keeps going, on and on, his hands making broad gestures, and he's aware he is close to her, enough to see the green flecks in her eyes, the slight swell where her breasts curve above the neckline of her dress. He stops mid-sentence, distracted, and swallows. 

She tilts her head, considering. "Could you maybe help me with the second page? I'm having trouble with voicing."

"Yes," he says immediately, and then backtracks. "I mean, not right now, I'm supposed to rehearse Shostakovich with Will, but tonight? You're at the Federalist hotel, right? I think they put all of us on the same floor, trying to contain the musicians. Anyway, there's a piano in the ballroom. It's private, but bigger - more open than a practice room. Less claustrophobic."

She nods. "Sounds good.”

He grins, relieved. "Maybe you can give me some ideas for the Rach."

That gets a real smile out of her. Her eyes light up, the corners creased with amusement. "Oh. I had some thoughts about that."

"I want to hear them."

***

Eliza calls after the rehearsal, while he’s walking back to the hotel. 

"Alexander," she says, and something in him realigns, like a compass pointing north. "How was your day?"

The masterclass springs to mind, Maria and the tiny thaw he felt, the promise of spring after an eternal winter. But that seems wrong to mention, for reasons he can’t explain, so he says instead, "Will and I rehearsed the Shostakovich. First time run through, and he can't sight read to save his life. I don't even know how he's getting his master's in piano, he could play better with his feet."

He meant to be funny, but she doesn't laugh. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. 

"I miss you." It bursts out of him. "I shouldn't have come here, I should have told him no..."

"I miss you, too. But we’ll have other summers. And it’s just one more year.”

"Yeah." He sighs. He hasn't told her, how bad it's been, though she must be able to tell. She always knows. "Tell me about your day. Please. Just talk."

She does. Describes the aria she's working on, tells him the funny things her students said in their lessons, muses over her theme for their recital. Any other day her voice would be a comfort, but today it just makes his skin crawl with  _ want _ . He presses the phone closer to his ear. Maybe if he tries, really tries, he can reach through and she’ll touch him and everything will be fine.

He gets to the hotel as she concludes her day. There's a pause, and then: "Mom and Dad want you to come over for Thanksgiving. I know you couldn’t last year, but…”

"I wanted to, Eliza, believe me.”

"I know," she soothes. "And if you can't, it's fine. I just don't want you to be alone. Also Mom insists you need her pie, says you could stand to gain some weight.

He breathes a laugh; it sounds more like a sob. "I'm fine."

"You haven't had dinner, have you?"

"It's been a long day -"

"How many Red Bulls?"

"Just two, I'm fine."

"Alexander."

He steps inside the lobby. Maria sees him and starts walking over. "Eliza, I have another rehearsal, last minute. I promise I'll eat something."

"Dinner! If it's from a vending machine it doesn't count." Her voice softens. "I love you."

"I’ll call you in the morning.”

He hangs up as Maria joins him. "So, the ballroom is down this hall - found it on the first day when I needed some practice time and the kids in the music building wouldn't stop their pissing contests. I guess they use it for big events but the festival has taken over so no one wants to book the space. Anyway, the staff don't mind."

He pushes open the double doors to reveal a spacious room with rows of chandeliers and linen-draped tables. The piano stands on a raised platform at the far end, a full sized concert grand, sleek and black and sexier than a sports car. He runs his hand over the inner curve and pushes up the lid. 

"Might as well hear it," he mutters. 

Maria pulls out her score. 

"You don't need that."

“But -”

"You can't even see the music anymore. And the words are inside you." He pulls a fold-up chair next to the piano. "Just start. Wherever you want."

She's tense, her shoulders rounded and her thighs clenching, visible as her dress rides up against the edge of the bench. She has to pause a few measures in. "Sorry."

He bumps his knee against hers. "It's just me. We're peers." A thought occurs to him. "You’re an undergrad?”

"Junior. Well, senior. In the fall."

"Ah." Beat. “You know, this is a hard piece -”

"Look, just because I didn't go to Julliard or Kings doesn't mean I can't play piano. I'm here, aren't I?" She inhales sharply through her nose. "Sorry.”

"It's fine. I didn’t mean to - I came to the states on scholarships. No real training. So I get it, feeling like you’re on the outside.”

She closes her eyes. Rubs a bruise on her knee. "Yeah."

"Do you want to try again? Maybe a different section?"

"Yeah." She readjusts her skirt. 

The second time is better. Alex can’t sit down: he walks around while she plays, and at one point he takes her hand - "try it like this” - and she tenses before she eases into it. He's tactile, he likes demonstrations, and he poses her shoulders, her arms, her fingers, making adjustments to get the desired sound. She lets him, watching from under her long lashes. 

He talks the entire time, explaining techniques Washington taught him and going on a tangent about the knock of fate motif in Beethoven. Maria is a fast learner: she makes changes after one or two tries, intuits meaning out of his rapid-fire nonsense. They go back to the first movement. She slams into the opening chords, making the piano shake with her force, and something uncoils in Alex's stomach. He moves closer, talking faster, louder. A siren blares in the back of his mind, but he ignores it - the noise drowns out the darker voice that's always there, worse since he left Kings, the one telling him  _ you shouldn't even be here _ . 

He's leaning over her shoulder, pointing out a note in her score, when she kisses him. 

He goes still.

She flushes. "Was that not -"

In response, he presses her against the keyboard, mouth on hers. She makes a startled sound, moans as he deepens the kiss. She bites his lip, hard - good, yes, pain, make him hurt, he deserves it, he can take it - and his hands fumble at the back of her dress, grasping for the zipper.

"Table," she gasps.

He swings her from the bench, takes her over one of the banquet tables. Her hands tug at his jeans; he abandons the zipper and hitches up her skirt. Lips, tongue, teeth - no thought, his brain finally  _ finally _ quiet, all his focus on the white heat in his body and the sounds coming out of Maria's bared throat.

Minutes later they're back in their clothes, hair messy and mouths wet. It's fine, he tells himself, nobody needs to know, they just have to make it to their rooms, it’s fine. 

He doesn't look at her.

Maria gathers her things. "I'm in room 791. In case you want to go over the Rach."

She says it with a straight face. As though it would be perfectly acceptable for them to discuss the prelude and nothing else. Just two lonely people finding release. In the music, in each other.  

He should say no. The guilt is coming, too late -  _ you bastard, you cheated on her, Eliza Eliza Eliza _ . He needs to make this right. Confess, apologize. 

  
He should say no, but he doesn't. Not that night, not any other night that summer. 


End file.
